


A Doctor, Ordered

by PreciselyVex (CrashEdit)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Dom!Sherlock, Johnlock Roulette, Light Bondage, M/M, Off-screen Electrical Stimulation, Oral Sex, Sub!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 05:51:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrashEdit/pseuds/PreciselyVex
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...wherein Sherlock ruins his purple shirt.<br/>(and oh, yes -- porn!)</p><p> </p><p>**No Beta, No Britpick!**</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "John, I need you."

  

Cold air rushed into the room as Sherlock appeared, slamming the door behind him.

“John, I need you.”

The doctor stood up, immediately concerned. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing – everything – same as ever, the world is fucked.” Sherlock distractedly moved through the room, throwing items into a bag, “BUT…two things: one, Eric Steven Carter is now behind bars – “

John broke out in a smile. “You did it? However did you fi—“

“No time for that. Put on your coat.”

John threw up his hands. “Wait – what happened to two?”

The tall one turned, irritated. “What?”

“You said ‘two things’ – one was Eric Steven Carter, what was two?”

Sherlock finally paused, bag in hand, and opened his coat, revealing a rather large and growing bloodstain on his inevitable purple shirt. “Two is that there’s a good chance I’ll pass out before we make it to hospital, so let’s stop by your office.”


	2. The Impatient Patient

The bullet had passed cleanly through his shoulder – a blessing really, although it has left a rather impressive hole in the consulting detective’s body. As John examined him on the surgery table, he mused at the odd perspective of being able to literally see through Sherlock, in one side and straight out to the other. If only he was always this transparent…

Of course, the musing didn’t begin until after he’d been assured, with some confidence, of Sherlock’s continuing and future existence on the planet. He cleaned the wound, as his very impatient patient squirmed on the table.

“Hurts, John – look, stop touching it!”

“I have to touch it, you git. It needs cleaning and then stitching. Now, for heaven’s sake, be still.”

“Slap a piece of duct tape on it, I’m sure it’ll be fine…”

“…if you want a remarkable scar, certainly, be my guest!”

“Well, I _am_ fond of scars…” said Sherlock, settling in. “Not on my own person, necessarily, but on others, quite fond, yes…” He held the “s” out far longer than he should, eyes dropping down to the place where he knew the good Dr. Watson was scarred, that relief map of pain, etched and grooved into his partner’s skin. The thought aroused him enough to require some shifting of his person.

John let out an angry groan, “Look, one more move like that and you will end up with a scar. Don’t move!”

Sherlock acquiesced, then pointedly gazed at the doctor. “Well, this is an interesting turnabout, isn’t it?”

John paused, mid-stitch, but did not return his gaze. “How do you mean?”

“Me below, helpless and hurting,” Sherlock cleared his throat, “You on top, barking commands, playing with needles…”

John shook his head. “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sherlock, you’ve never been helpless a day in your life. And might I remind you that you’ve been shot – this is not a sexy situation.”

Sherlock nodded serenely. “Indeed. Nothing sexy about this at all.” He paused a moment before casually asking, “Bleeding stopped?”

John smiled, relieved that the conversation was finally going the way it was supposed to with a patient. “Yes, you’re going to be fine.”

“Still stitching, though?”

“Almost finished with the entry wound, then I’ll move to the back.”

“Tie a knot in it. Now.” There was a discernible shift in his voice. He sat up suddenly, wincing a bit, and swung his legs over the table.

“What the hell, Sherlock?” John threw up his hands in frustration. “You’re injured!”

The detective exhaled deeply and ran a hand down his own tightening pants. “Yes, John, but I’m not dead. You said so yourself.”

“You’ll start the bleeding again.”

“Good thing I have a doctor on call.”

They were face to face, Sherlock sitting on the table, John standing by, needle still in hand, the thread still connecting them. John sputtered for a moment, frozen. Sherlock reached out and caressed his face, running his thumb over John’s lower lip, possessively. John’s breath hitched as his eyes closed.

“You see,” smirked Sherlock, “this _is_ a sexy situation. We just had to turn the tables the right way ‘round. Now fucking tie me off and get on your knees.”


	3. Some Basic Truths

“You know, I’ve never been a fan of medical scenes in kink, per se,” Sherlock eased the tight-fitting surgical glove over his hand, admiring it’s look and feel, “It always seemed so silly in some ways – ‘me doctor, you patient’, you know? Very retro, somehow.”

He leaned over to check the tightness of the gauze around John’s wrists.

“But I see now that I may have let the camp get in the way of a truly interesting box of toys.” He raised John’s chin. “Not so different from lab toys, true, but such variety. You’ve been holding back on me, dearest John. So many fun things to play with…”

Bending down, he whispered quickly and quietly into the doctor’s ear: “Be a good boy and I won’t break out the speculum.”

With a sudden jerk, his good arm pushed John – who was naked, and seated on a short, wheeled stool with his hands bound behind his back – against the wall. The wheels squeaked, and the clattering of the metal chair against the wall was loud. John looked up at the clock above his head and gave mental thanks that it was still the middle of the night.

Sherlock followed after him, fumbling with his zipper and releasing his cock. He stroked it, enjoying the wild-eyed look on John’s face, and the strained condition of John’s own rock-hard member. John blushed under the intense examination. Sherlock shook his head and laughed. “Such a slut, aren’t you? And everyone imagines you to be the normal one. Truth is, you’re sicker than I am, aren’t you?”

John blushed and nodded, looking away. “Yes sir…”

“Don’t you fucking look away, John. We’re discussing some basic truths here.” John’s eyes returned to Sherlock. “Good boy. Now, tell me what you are…”

“A…a slut…”

“More than that, I should think…”

John sniffled. “Your slut?”

“Are you asking me or telling me?”

“Fuck me, Sherlock…” It wasn’t clear if that was meant as a request or an exclamation of frustration. Either clearly applied.

“I will fuck you – eventually -- but you need to tell me what you are. Tell me why you get so aroused when I hurt you, when I use you…and promptly, please.”

“Yes sir…” John halted, choosing his words carefully, the ache in his cock humbling him, his arms starting to cramp in their bonds. He took a deep breath.

“I’m your useless little cocksucking cumslut, Sherlock. Yours and only yours.”

“Well, love,” said Sherlock considering his words and pursing his lips, “I wouldn’t say you’re _entirely_ useless,” and at that, the detective shoved his remarkably long prick deep inside the doctor’s throat.


	4. A Curious Gift

It was only a matter of time before John found himself on the table, bandaged wrists out in front of him, body bent and spread wide, at the mercy of Sherlock’s latex-covered fingers. Until Sherlock, he’d never placed himself in that position – a fact that delighted Sherlock’s methodical mind immensely.

“Such a tight fit, John, we’re going to need to do some incremental training to loosen you up a bit. Warming you up every time is tedious.”

“Thought you liked it tight, Sherlock.”

“That’s sir, and don’t be cheek.” John squirmed as Sherlock applied more pressure…and a good bit more lube. John’s mind whirled…fucking hell, so goddamned good. His hips found the edge of the table, seeking friction and found some in the lip of the cool metal, so good. He moaned.

“Did I say you could get off?”

John’s hips stopped immediately. “No sir.”

“Because if you cum before I say you can, I promise, my good doctor, you won’t sit easily for a week.”

“Yes sir.”

Sherlock stood up straight, removed his fingers from John’s hole and slapped him sharply on the arse. "Time for fun...”

John tensed, wanting it, eager, but clenching in spite of himself. Sherlock moved into position, leaning forward. That’s when John first felt the tiniest pinprick of a scalpel blade close along his neck. He froze.

Sherlock began to purr, “Steady…easy now. There’s already been enough blood shed today, so play along.” John could almost hear Sherlock smiling. “God, your pulse is racing, I can feel it.” John could feel something as well, and he squirmed, wishing it was inside him.

Sherlock continued. “Now pay attention: Eric Steven Carter may have shot me in the shoulder, but in doing so, he’s given me a curious gift, and that is this: You’re going to have to work to get properly fucked today, John. I can’t do this for you, not with just one working arm.”

He moved the scalpel from neck to wrist and sliced the bandages that bound John’s hands, freeing him to move.

“Now. Show me how badly you want it, John. Fuck yourself. Ride my cock. But you better fucking make me cum first.”

It was awkward at first – clumsy attempts to get in sync. Sherlock wrapped his good arm around John, hand on his mouth, gagging him and effectively providing them with some physical leverage. John pushed against the table with both arms. Eventually they found their rhythm.

“Milk it, John…yesss…” His hand moved from John’s mouth to John’s hip and yanked him hard, bringing about a loud series of moans from Watson. Sherlock licked his palm and reached down even farther, gripping John’s cock, roughly pulling him, again, even closer. He stroked him firmly, quickly, relentlessly, efficiently, and John, lightheaded, nearly gave way.

“Not yet -- John, resist it. Don’t you dare cum.”

The doctor whimpered loudly, on edge – the paradox of what Sherlock was saying versus what Sherlock was doing confused his body and his mind. Panic surged through every synapse, lovely panic, his frustration palpable, furiously grinding, clasping Sherlock’s cock with his inner muscle, even as Sherlock clasped his with his hand. John became desperate -- desperate to please, desperate to perform and to impress, desperate to tease the cum out of the detective so that he could find relief. “Please, please, please, cum for me, Sherlock, fuck, cum for me...” on and on, the voice of a man losing control…

And when at last Sherlock, himself, lost control, John followed quickly after.


	5. Hit The Switch

“I’m disappointed in you, John.”

The two reclined on the stainless table, legs entwined. At his words, John looked at him, crestfallen, still freshly coated in Sherlock’s cum.

Sherlock grinned lazily, “No, not about _that_ , you filthy little cunt. I’m talking about the bag.”

“What bag?”

“The one I brought from the house.”

“Didn’t notice, sorry – I was too busy watching you bleed.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Feeling dramatic, are we?” He crossed the room to grab the leather satchel. “This bag, this is what I’m talking about – and I’m terribly disappointed in your lack of curiosity. If I’d been in your shoes, that would’ve been my very first question.”

John shook his head “You’d rather I have asked about that instead of inquiring as to your state of health?”

“I would’ve respected your investigative moxie and your emerging observational skills…both of which, I see, continue to elude you.”

John sighed, and shot him a humoring look (well, as humoring as one can look naked and perched on a stainless tabletop). “Alright, Sherlock, what’s in the bag?”

“I thought you’d never ask.” He grinned like it was Christmas morning. “You see, I hadn’t thought to consider all the marvelous toys you’d have on hand right here, so I brought along some of my own.”

John furrowed his brow. “Wait – are you telling me that as you were bleeding, from a gunshot wound, you…stopped by the house to load up on sex toys?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes, as well as a few everyday household items that can have astonishing uses in a scene.” He looked up and registered John’s building anger. “What? I knew I wasn’t going to die – and how often do we get to play at your work?”

“You manipulated me, Sherlock.” John seethed.

“Yes, and isn’t it fun?” Sherlock grinned.

“You scared me – for this?”

“Well, I _was_ actually shot, John. That was a real hole in my real shoulder. I just…came up with this idea on the way back to the flat.”

John, stood up, pulling on a t-shirt. “And you think I’m the sick one…I should kick your ass all the way home!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Are you threatening me, John?”

They both got quiet. Sherlock stared him down with a withering look. John shifted his eyes to the patterned tiles at his feet.

After a moment, John looked up, and cleared his throat.

“Well, that all depends,” he said -- and after taking a long, pointed glance into the bag, he casually asked, “Is that a violet wand?”

“Why, yes it is, John.”

John smiled quickly to himself before turning to face the detective, solemnly. “Then yes sir, I am absolutely threatening you, sir.”

Sherlock smirked once more as he plugged in the wand and hit the switch.


End file.
